Individual Time

I'm calling out from pictures to your vision creating itturn right, that dream building cutglass window in door.Automatically inside their apartment, you don't haveto get there. This is before the lost sacred corpus vision,someone says Look at my author photo. Idon't really want to I'm turning to defiant metalnot a dream part, can you see it where the movement ofimages turns back towards me I want adifferent, how I'm portrayed because you can'tsee me, visage. Look at me please. The soul is so thicklarger than the portrait what you'd call madonnaesque,and then there was more hoax a view as I amthe rose here. And you never wanted to be that, did I?I was waiting to see what I would be. Blacknesseats you but your soul eats it without your knowing thatfigure, because it is causing your appearance to the world.They arrange me in clothes of Easter, or ofthe first day of classes, but I'm projecting pigmentcracked gold on fire, thinking braver thoughts.It takes courage to get to the ancient altarof the moment where I create individual time.The picture body untremblingly stares large-eyedI also create the tablets of exponential seeing: it brightensall around it, as I'm the apparatus of what there is to be;and I am making it, my time visibly becoming me.